The grey light of early morning crept through the curtains, pulling Elena from a sleep that felt more like drowning. Her body was wrong—hot, damp, the sheets twisted around her legs like something had been trying to drag her under.
For a moment, she just lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to catch hold of what she’d been dreaming.
Then it came back to her in fragments.
His voice in her ear. Low. Certain. Saying her name as it belonged to him.
Her breath caught as the memory sharpened, slipping past the edges of sleep and into something far too vivid to dismiss.
In the dream, she hadn’t stopped him.
She remembered the heat of his hand against her skin, the way her body had reacted before her mind could catch up. The sensation of being looked at—held in place by it. His fingers moved with unhurried certainty, her breath breaking when she should have pulled away.
Her pulse jumped as the last image surfaced, uninvited and complete.
She sat up fast. What the hell was that?
She'd never—she'd never dreamed like that. Not once. The few crushes she'd had in high school, the dates that went nowhere, they'd never produced anything like this. This wasn’t anything she recognized. Not a crush, not a memory. His voice in her ear. Her body responded before thought could catch up. His hand—steady, unhurried. Her breath was breaking where it should have stopped. This was his fingers on her breast, rolling her nipple until she gasped, and the gasp had been real. She'd felt it in her throat.
She threw the covers off and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The air hit her skin, and she shivered, but the heat inside her didn't fade. It sat there, low and patient, like something waiting.
"You're being ridiculous," she whispered to the empty room. Her voice sounded thin.
The shower was a mercy. She stood under the spray, letting the hot water beat against her shoulders, and tried to scrub the dream off her skin. Soap, shampoo, the whole routine. But every time she closed her eyes, she saw his face—still, unreadable, those deep blue eyes that missed nothing.
She pressed her forehead against the cool tile. "It was a dream. Just a dream."
But right now, her body didn't believe her. It remembered the weight of his gaze, the way her pulse had raced when he'd told her to undress. In the dream, she'd wanted to. She'd wanted him to look. She'd wanted him to touch her again.
She turned the water colder. Stayed under it until her skin pricked and her teeth chattered. By the time she stepped out, the mirror was fogged, and her fingers were shaking.
She wrapped a towel around herself and stood in the middle of the bedroom, dripping onto the hardwood floor. The wardrobe stood open, revealing the blouses and skirts Mrs. Crane had arranged yesterday. Work uniforms, he'd called them. She picked one—a white blouse, a navy skirt that hit just above the knee—and walked them into the bathroom, placing them on the counter.
The fabric was crisp and expensive. She pulled the blouse on, buttoned it slowly, and when she reached for the skirt, her hand brushed something on the bathroom counter. A small velvet box she hadn't noticed before.
She opened it. Gold earrings, with a clover-like design hanging from a small loop, both beautiful and elegant, catching the grey light. She turned them over in her fingers, then looked at her reflection. He’d thought of everything—clothes, jewelry, even the uniform she hadn’t chosen to question.
She put the earrings in. They felt heavier than they should have.
The dining hall was empty when she came down. A plate of fruit and toast sat at one end of the long table, and she ate standing up, too restless to sit. The staff moved quietly in the background—a woman wiping down the counters, a man refilling a pitcher. They didn't look at her. Too busy in their own work.
She finished eating, wiped her mouth, and left to walk back up the stairs. The second floor was quiet. His study was at the end of the hall, the same heavy oak door she'd walked through yesterday. She stopped in front of it, raised her hand, and knocked.
His voice came through the wood. "Come in."
She pushed the door open. He was behind his desk, same as before, a cup of coffee in his hand and that sharp blue suit sharpening the lines of his body. The morning light came through the tall windows behind him, silhouetting his shoulders, making it hard to read his face.
She stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
His attention landed on her before he spoke. His gaze moved slowly from her earrings to her knees and back to her face. Her fingers tightened in her lap.
"Morning."
He gestured to the chair across from him. She sat, her hands in her lap, her spine straight. The same chair she'd signed the contract in.
"You'll be seeing your brother tonight," he said, without preamble. "He'll be at a nearby cafe at seven. You will be escorted by our head of security, Victor."
Relief filled her. She would get to see her baby brother. To set her unfounded suspicion of him being hurt to rest.
"You wanted to see him. Therefore, I made the arrangements." He took a sip of his coffee, then set the cup down, his fingers resting on the rim. “Does this not satisfy your request?”
This did. She was satisfied. Though a part of her had been dreading the story she'd have to tell, the explanation she'd have to give Marco about why she would be away for work. But hearing that it was happening tonight made it real, and real was terrifying.
"This does, thank you," she said.
He nodded, a small, measured acknowledgment. Then he leaned forward, his elbows on the desk, his hands folded. His stillness filled the room.
"We need to discuss handling your estate. The apartment," Liam said, his voice cutting through the memory. She blinked, pulled back to the present. He was watching her the way he watched everything—too closely, too completely. "This Friday. Presley will accompany you. You will collect whatever you need for work or personal use. The rest will be moved into storage for the duration of the agreement."
The words landed like small, precise blows. Her apartment. Her things. Being sorted and boxed by someone else. "My books?" she asked, her voice rougher than she intended. "My laptop—my files. The sketches I have pinned to my wall."
"Whatever you need for work or personal use," he repeated, the same phrase, a wall she couldn't argue with. He tilted his head, studying her. "Make a list while you're there. Presley will ensure it's packed. Anything you leave behind will be stored securely." It was practical. It was efficient. It was another door closing, another piece of her old life being sealed away.
She looked down at her hands, uncurled them. The sting of her nails faded. A strange relief settled in her chest—at least it would be done. At least she wouldn't have to walk through that empty apartment alone. She lifted her chin and met his eyes. "Okay." He held her gaze for a beat longer, then straightened.
"Now. Your responsibilities."
She straightened, ready for whatever list he'd prepared. Secretarial work. Phone calls. Meetings. Paperwork. She'd done it all before, for her own company. She could do it again.
"You'll start each morning here," Liam said, his voice carrying the same measured weight as everything else in this room. "We'll review the day's priorities, discuss any plans or paperwork that requires my attention."
She nodded, her hands still in her lap. The gold earrings brushed against her neck when she moved, a constant reminder of his thoughtfulness—or his control. She couldn't decide which just yet.
"Your client meetings will continue as scheduled. You'll attend them with me, take notes, and follow up on action items. I expect you to maintain your professional relationships. Your contacts, your vendors, your artists—they stay yours." He paused, his blue eyes holding hers. "You built those relationships. I'm not interested in dismantling them."
That surprised her. She'd assumed he'd want to replace everyone, install his own people, strip her company down to nothing. "You're keeping my contacts?"
"For now. If I feel a change would improve growth, I'll make it. But you know these people. You know how to work with them. That's valuable." He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. "You're expected to stay in contact with all your current partners. If you need assistance—legal, financial, logistical—you notify me. I'll have resources you don't."
She could almost see the shape of it now—meetings, travel, introductions, access. Each one narrowed what she could choose without ever saying she couldn’t choose. "So I'm still running the company. Just... with you watching."
"Running it under Thorn Holdings. The structure changes. The day-to-day doesn't have to." He picked up his coffee, took a sip, and set it down with the same deliberate precision. "You've built something from nothing. I've read the numbers. Impressive growth for a solo operation."
Praise from him felt strange, almost uncomfortable. She didn't know what to do with it. "Thank you."
"It's not flattery. It's assessment." He folded his hands on the desk. "You'll also accompany me to events. Dinners, openings, the occasional weekend trip. You'll be introduced as my associate. Your presence will be required."
“What kind of events?"
"Industry functions. Charity galas. Business dinners. Not much you haven't handled before, just at a different scale." His gaze flickered, just for a moment. "You'll need to dress accordingly."
The wardrobe. The lingerie. The way he'd chosen everything down to the fabric against her skin. She pushed the thought down. "And my evenings here? At the manor?"
"You'll be free to do as you wish unless the need to call on you is present, in which case you will be expected to answer. I will do all I can to get you as much time to prepare as I am able." He said it flatly, like it was the most natural thing in the world. "I don't intend to hover. I have my own work to attend to."
Her own time. The concept felt foreign now, trapped inside this arrangement. "What about my brother? The visit tonight—I just stick to the fabricated story you gave me?"
"Is it not in part truth? You've accepted a position with Thorn Holdings. A private consultancy for international clients. The details are confidential." He held her gaze. "He doesn't need to know about the debt and the agreement. I would only see that bringing you and him harm if you were to tell him."
She nodded, even though the weight of it didn’t feel negotiable. "And if he asks why I'm living here?"
"Corporate housing. Standard for senior consultants, and it’s not public knowledge of what my premise looks like on the inside." A ghost of something crossed his face—amusement, maybe. "It's not a lie. You are living here. You are a senior consultant. The details are simply... incomplete."
She hated how neat it was. How easily he'd constructed a story that would hold. "You've done this before."
"I've negotiated many contracts." He stood, walking to the window, his back to her as he left her question unanswered. The morning light caught the lines of his shoulders, the crisp edge of his suit. "You will leave to meet your brother at six thirty. Victor will drive you to the cafe. You'll have one hour. Then you return here."
One hour. She'd been given a single hour with the brother she was selling herself to save. "And after that?"
"You'll settle in. Dinner. Rest. Tomorrow, we begin." He turned, his face unreadable. "Any questions?"
Hundreds. Thousands. But none she could voice. "No."
"Good. Reach out and handle any business you need with your clients today. There is a computer station in your room if you need it." He walked back to his desk, sat down, and pulled a folder toward him. The gesture was a dismissal. "Victor will find you when it's time. You're free until then."
She rose, her legs unsteady beneath her. The chair scraped against the floor, a small sound in the vast silence of the study. She reached the door, her hand on the handle, and stopped.
"Mr. Thorn."
He looked up.
"Thank you. For letting me see him."
Something shifted in his eyes, there and gone. "Per our agreement, Miss Rossi."
She opened the door and stepped into the hall, the gold earrings swaying against her neck. The weight of them—of him—followed her all the way to her room.
Her hand found the door handle to her room, and she pushed inside, the gold earrings swaying against her neck. The quiet of the space hit her—the empty bed, the drawn curtains, the computer station she hadn't touched. She crossed to the small desk where her phone sat, dark and silent since yesterday.
She picked it up. Her thumb moved across the screen, unlocking it, and there it was—a missed call from her parents' home number, and a text notification from her father.
Hey princess, I just wanted to check in on you and see how you’re doing.
The words blurred for a second. She blinked hard, reading them again. Her dad's voice filled her head—that gentle, warm tone he used when he hadn't heard from her in a while. No pressure. No accusation. Just love, quiet and steady, the way it had always been.
She could picture him sending it. Sitting at the kitchen table, probably, his reading glasses low on his nose, his thumb pecking at the screen with that careful, exaggerated patience he used on his phone. Her mom would be nearby, maybe washing dishes, asking if he'd reached her yet.
They had no idea.
They wouldn’t know about Marco's debts, about the calls she'd gotten, the money she'd shifted, the favors she'd called in to keep their son out of the kind of trouble that left marks. She'd always handled it when he messed up. Always stepped in before the mess reached them. And Marco had always paid her back—sometimes in cash, sometimes in weeks of showing up at her studio, helping with shipments, apologizing without ever saying the words.
This time, there was no paying her back. No recovery. Not with this amount.
She pulled out the chair in front of the computer, pressed the power button, and waited for the machine to hum to life.
The boot-up was quick. The desktop appeared, clean and unfamiliar—Thorn's system, not hers. She opened the browser and typed in the addresses she knew by heart.
One by one, the systems loaded—her client portal, the database, the calendar she’d built herself. She downloaded the tools she needed and set up file sync. Then she configured the email client. Only after that did she open her client list.
When the programs were running, she pulled up her client list. Twelve active accounts. Seven pending projects. Three artists are waiting on approval. She picked up her phone and started making calls.
The first was to a gallery owner in Brooklyn, a woman with a voice like gravel who'd been one of her first partners. "Hey, it's Elena. Just confirming the shipment for the Henderson piece is still on track for next week."
"Everything's fine on my end," the woman said. "You sound different. Everything okay?"
"Yeah. Just busy. New arrangement for the company—some restructuring. I'll send you the updated contact info."
She made two more calls after that. Each one the same careful performance: a voice that didn't shake, a professional ease that cost her something she couldn't name. She updated a vendor on payment timelines. She rescheduled a meeting with an artist who'd been waiting for feedback. She kept her voice steady and her answers vague, and when each call ended, she set the phone down and stared at her father's text again.
Hey princess…
She picked up the phone. Hit the call button.
It rang twice before her father picked up. "Elena! Hey, princess. I was starting to wonder if you'd fallen off the face of the earth."
The sound of his voice hit her in the chest. Warm. Easy. Unaware. She leaned back in the chair, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. "Hey, Dad. Sorry, I missed your call. It's been insane over here."
"That's what I figured. Your mother's been asking about you every night. You know how she gets." A pause. Rustling, like he was settling into a chair. "So. Everything good?"
She opened her mouth. Closed it. The lie sat on her tongue, heavy and dry. "Yeah, everything's good. Actually better than good. I picked up a new position."
"Yeah? With whom?"
"Thorn Holdings. It's a major consultancy firm, with international clients and big projects. They're acquiring Rossi Arts as part of the arrangement, but I'll still be running the day-to-day." She said it like it was a victory, her voice lifting the way it did when she had good news. She'd learned that trick from him. "It's a huge opportunity."
"Thorn Holdings," he repeated, like he was tasting the name. "Never heard of them. They legit?"
"Very legit. One of the biggest in the industry. The kind of company that opens doors you didn't even know existed." She was selling it now, the same skill she used with clients. "The catch is it's going to keep me busy for the next few years. Really busy. I'll still call when I can, I just can't promise it'll be regular."
A silence. Not a long one, but long enough that she felt it.
"You sound tired, princess."
The words hit her differently than she expected. Her throat tightened. She swallowed. "I am tired, Dad. But it's the good kind. A lot of changes over the last few days, and I just wanted to share the news."
She tried to help keep him from worrying about her. As she knew he always would.
"That doesn't sound like my little girl," he said, and there was warmth in it, a teasing edge she recognized. "My little girl never admitted she was tired. She'd work herself to the bone and say she was fine."
She tried to laugh. It came out thin. "Maybe she grew up."
"Maybe she did." He paused. "Hey, you let us know if you need anything, alright? Money's tight on our end, but we can always figure something out."
Money. He had no idea how much money was involved, how much she'd already spent to keep Marco alive. "I'm fine, Dad. I promise. The new role pays well—really well. I'm covered."
"Good. That's good." Another pause. "Has your brother called you lately?"
"A few days ago. He's fine. Just doing his thing."
"That boy needs to get his act together," her father said, and there was an old weariness in his voice, the weight of having said the same thing a hundred times. "I love him, but he's always chasing something he can't catch."
She closed her eyes. "I know, Dad."
"Anyway. You take care of yourself. I'll tell your mother you called. She'll want to talk to you next time."
"I'll try. I can't promise when, but I'll try."
"That's all I ask, princess. Love you."
"Love you too, Dad."
The line clicked. She lowered the phone from her ear and stared at the blank screen. The silence of the room pressed in around her, thick and patient, and she sat there in the dark, her father's voice still warm in her memory, the lie still burning on her tongue.
The line clicked. She lowered the phone from her ear and stared at the blank screen. The silence of the room pressed in around her, thick and patient, and she sat there in the dark, her father's voice still warm in her memory, the lie still burning on her tongue.
She set the phone down and turned back to the computer. The client portal was still open, a spreadsheet of pending invoices glowing on the screen. She worked through them methodically—approving two, flagging one for review, sending a follow-up to a vendor who'd been quiet for three weeks. Her fingers moved on autopilot, the numbers familiar and grounding, but her mind kept drifting back to her father's voice. You sound tired, princess.
She pushed the thought down and kept working.
Another hour passed. She cleared her inbox, updated the project timelines, and sent a draft contract to a gallery in Chicago. The work was steady and mechanical, the kind of busywork that usually settled her. But today it felt thin, like she was going through motions that didn't mean anything anymore. This wasn't her company. Not really. It was his, with her name still on the door.
She closed the laptop and sat back in the chair, rolling her shoulders. The muscles in her neck were tight, a knot forming at the base of her skull from hunching over the screen. She pressed her palm to the spot and rubbed, feeling the tension resist.
Her bag sat on the floor beside the desk, the same worn leather tote she'd carried into the manor yesterday. She hadn't touched it since she'd arrived. She reached down, pulled it onto her lap, and unzipped it. Inside: a wallet, a phone charger, a small makeup pouch, and a sketch pad she'd shoved in at the last minute. The edges were frayed, the cover stained with coffee rings from months of use.
She pulled the sketch pad out and flipped it open. The first few pages were quick studies—a hand, an eye, the curve of a jaw. Then a full sketch of Lisa, her head thrown back in laughter, the colorful streaks in her hair catching light Elena had imagined. She turned the page. Her mother, caught mid-smile, the lines around her eyes soft and familiar. Her father, sitting at the kitchen table with a newspaper, his reading glasses low on his nose.
She paused on that one, her thumb tracing the edge of the paper. Then she turned past it.
She found a blank page and pressed the pad flat against the desk. From the front pocket of the bag, she pulled out a charcoal pencil, the tip worn to a fine point. She tested it against the corner of the page, a light scratch of black, then began to sketch.
Marco's face came easily—the slope of his jaw, the slight upturn of his nose, the way his hair fell across his forehead no matter how many times he pushed it back. She drew the shape of his smile, the one he'd worn since he was a kid, crooked and a little too wide, like he was always about to tell a joke. She worked in the shadows under his cheekbones, the light catching the bridge of his nose. The charcoal moved under her fingers, building him line by line, and for a few minutes, the room fell away.
There was just the scratch of pencil on paper, the smell of graphite and dust, and the shape of her brother emerging from the page. She sketched his hands next, the way he gestured when he talked, fingers spread wide. She added the collar of his favorite jacket, the one with the tear at the shoulder he'd never bothered to fix.
A knock at the door. Steady. Measured. Two taps.
She looked up, the charcoal pencil still in her hand. "Come in."
The door opened, and Presley stood in the frame, his peppered hair combed back, his tailcoat pressed and spotless. He didn't step inside, just held the door with one hand and met her eyes with that quiet, professional stillness he carried everywhere. "Miss Rossi. Mr. Ward is ready for you out front whenever you are ready to leave for your appointment."
The mention of Marco sent a pulse of warmth through her chest. She set the pencil down carefully, marking her place in the sketch pad, and closed it. "Thank you, Presley. I'll be down in a few minutes."
He nodded once. "Very good, miss." He pulled the door closed with a soft click, his footsteps receding down the hall.
She stood, tucking the sketch pad back into her bag and zipping it closed. The gold earrings swayed against her neck as she moved, catching the light from the desk lamp. She grabbed her phone, slid it into her pocket, and took one last look around the room—the laptop still warm, the desk chair pushed back, the sheets rumpled on the bed.
This was her life now. A room in a stranger's house, waiting for permission to see her own brother.
She walked out the door and down the hall, her steps quick on the polished floor. The grand staircase curved ahead of her, and she took it at a near jog, the banister smooth under her hand. The man who drove her before, Victor, stood in the entryway, his broad frame silhouetted against the front door, arms crossed. He looked up when he heard her footsteps, his face unreadable.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Ready."
He pulled the door open, and the evening air hit her, cool and clean. A black sedan waited in the driveway, its engine running. She climbed into the back seat, her bag clutched in her lap, and Victor slid into the driver's seat without a word. The car pulled forward, the manor shrinking in the rearview mirror, and Elena watched it go, her reflection ghosted in the glass.
The drive was short—ten minutes through winding roads, past houses she didn't recognize, into a small town square she'd never seen. The cafe was on a corner, its windows warm with yellow light, a chalkboard sign out front advertising the day's specials. Victor pulled up to the curb and killed the engine.
"I'll wait here," he said.
She nodded, opened the door, and stepped out onto the pavement. Her heels clicked against the sidewalk as she crossed to the cafe, the bell above the door chiming as she pushed inside.
The warm air hit her—coffee, baked bread, the low hum of conversation. And there, at a table near the window, Marco stood up so fast his chair scraped against the floor.
"Elena!"
His face split into that crooked grin, the one she'd just sketched, and he crossed the cafe in three long strides, wrapping his arms around her before she could say a word. He smelled like he always did—laundry detergent and the faint hint of something fried, like he'd grabbed lunch on the way. She hugged him back, hard, her face pressed into his shoulder, and for a second, she forgot about the contract and the manor and the weight of the gold in her ears.
"Hey, baby brother," she said, her voice muffled against his jacket.
He pulled back, holding her at arm's length, his eyes scanning her face like he was checking for damage. "You look good.” Then after a short pause, “How'd you pull it off? The whole debt thing?"
She smiled, the practiced one, the one she used with clients. "I told you. I managed to get a new position. Senior consultant for an international firm. They're acquiring Rossi Arts as part of the deal, but I'm still running the show."
"Seriously?" He blinked, his eyes wide. "You landed a job with Thorn Holdings? Like, the Thorn Holdings? The guy who owns like half of everything?"
"The same one." She kept her voice light, easy. "It's a huge opportunity. Crazy hours, but the pay is unreal."
Marco shook his head, a low whistle escaping his lips. "Damn, sis. I knew you were a badass, but this is next level." He pulled her into another quick hug, then steered her toward the table. "Come on, sit. Tell me everything."
They sat across from each other.
Marco talked with his hands the way he always did, filling the space between them. He asked questions about her work, about the company, about the move. She answered carefully, keeping her voice steady, letting the story hold. For a while, it almost felt normal.
"So where are you living?" he asked, reaching for another piece of bread. "With the move and everything?"
"Corporate housing. Standard for senior consultants. It's nice—quiet." She took a sip of the water the waitress had set down. "What about you? How are things on your end?"
His smile flickered, just for a second. He covered it with a shrug, his eyes dropping to the table. "Fine. You know. Same old."
Marco had always been like that—he caught the change in people before they knew it had happened.
They talked for forty more minutes. He told her about a band he'd discovered, about a new recipe he was trying to perfect, about a girl he'd been texting who might actually be worth meeting. She listened, asked questions, laughed at his jokes, and for a while, she almost forgot where she was going back to.
Finally, Marco leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest.
"You seem different."
She looked down at the table, tracing the edge of her glass. "Different?"
"Yeah." He left the response hanging, its weight pressing on her.
She forced a small laugh and shrugged, hoping she looked more relaxed than she felt. "I've had a stressful week."
"No." He shook his head slowly. "It's more than that."
Elena looked away, focusing on the window beside them. Outside, people moved along the sidewalk, completely unaware that her entire life had been turned upside down in the span of a few days.
Her throat tightened, but she didn’t trust her voice to come out steady.
Marco wasn't stupid. He had never been.
Growing up, he'd always been the one who noticed people. Their behaviours and tells. It’s what made him so good at gambling. He was the one who figured out she'd broken something before their parents found out. The one who knew she was going to tell a lie before she'd even opened her mouth. No matter how carefully she crafted a story, somehow he always saw through it.
He was the one person she'd never been able to fool.
"You disappeared for two days," he said carefully.
"I told you where I was."
"I know, but you were not at your home when I tried to visit." His fingers tapped once against the table. The sound seemed unnaturally loud. "You paid off the debt. You suddenly have a job opportunity that takes you away for months at a time."
Her fingers curled under the table.
"And every time I ask about it, you give me the same answer with that same smile."
The knot in her chest tightened. Because he was right. She had been repeating the same carefully rehearsed explanation over and over.
The story was starting to repeat itself in her mouth before she could stop it.
Marco watched her for another moment, his eyes narrowing slightly. She could see it was not with suspicion. With concern, and somehow, that felt worse.
If he were angry, she would have known how to answer him. Concern left her without anything to push against.
Concern meant he cared. That he was paying attention.
"Elena."
She looked up. Their eyes met across the table.
He held her gaze until she stopped pretending. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Elena's breath caught.
For a moment, neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke.
And now, there was nothing she could say.
END OF CHAPTER - DO NOT READ PAST THIS PART PLEASE.